


Cake, Saints, and Other Subtle Hints

by thalialunacy



Series: Frat Boy [5]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with Valentine's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cake, Saints, and Other Subtle Hints

**Author's Note:**

> **Contains** : OH GOD SCHMOOP. Some references that won't make sense unless you've read the series. AND DID I MENTION SCHMOOP.  
>  **Disclaimer** : Obviously fictional content is FICTIONAL. Don't be hatin', we just like the fuckin'.  
>  **Notes** : Thanks to [American Catholic.org](http://www.americancatholic.org/Features/Saints/saint.aspx?id=1291). And for continuity sticklers, let's just say that after #5, they're done shooting ST:XII. ~~sorry to pull a Chris Carter on you, lol.~~ Also thanks to maypirate for the read-thru. ♥

Chris, per usual, is persistent.

"You. Me. Dinner."

"What, out?"

Chris snorts. "As poetic as that double-entendre might be, no. In. Tomorrow?"

"I've filming tomorrow."

"Late?"

"No."

"Then call me when you're done."

"Chris…"

"Come on, old man. I promise not to keep you up past your bedtime."

Karl's turn to snort. "What bedtime?"

"Oh, right. Jetlag. Well, then, I promise to force you into bed." They both grin, although one is definitely more shit-eating than the other. "And maybe even for some sleep."

"I really shouldn't."

"Which means…"

"I'll call you when I'm done."

"That's what I'm talking about."

\---

Karl stands at Chris' door the next day, as promised, bouncing lightly on his heels. He's trying not to think about how he really shouldn't be there. He's a grown up, he has responsibilities. He should go home, have some tea, take a sleeping pill, and cajole his body back where it needs to be so he can be a professional and do his job the next day. He should not be—

But then the door opens, and there's that smile, crinkled eyes and illogically white teeth, and his stomach does a little flip. The only place he should be, he decides, is right where he is.

"Urban," Chris says.

"Pine."

Chris points back over his shoulder with a thumb. "I have Corona."

"You hate Corona."

"It's beer, dude. How could I hate beer?"

Karl rolls his eyes. "You gonna let me in or what?"

Chris smirks. "What's the magic word?"

Karl blinks. "Uh… Please?"

"Nuh-uh." Chris shakes his head. "The other one. Perhaps better termed a Magic Phrase?" His eyes search Karl's.

Karl is lost for a second—the blue is inhuman—but then he flushes as he remembers. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"Hell yeah I am."

Karl looks at him, embarrassed even though he's seen this man naked and _keening_ , for God's sake.

This will never do.

He looks down and rubs the back of his neck, taking a few casual steps forward. Then he closes the remaining space between them neatly by cupping the back of Chris' skull and putting his lips very near Chris' ear. "Fuck. Me," he says lowly, enunciating very carefully. Chris inhales sharply.

Then he moves back and raises his voice back to normal. He doesn't remove his hand, though. "Possibly even sideways," he continues conversationally.

Chris' neck and ears are suddenly very flushed. Karl's pretty satisfied.

But Chris just clears his throat and flashes teeth at him through a smile. "Well done, bro. You've earned your tacos." He turns and goes back inside, clearly expecting Karl will follow.

Which he does, of course.

\---

"So there's this exploding car thing going on, right—" Chris pauses to take a swig of beer. "—and it took for _ever_ to get it re-set up—" He pokes at the sizzling beef, trying to decide if he feels like medium or well-done tonight. "—and I could just hear my mother's voice in my head going on about 'hurry up and wait,' and—"

And suddenly there's a cool bottle pressed against the side of his neck and a warm—nay, hot—body pressed up against his backside. "Fuck," he hisses. His neck tilts of its own volition. Karl removes the bottle and puts his lips there instead, and the shivers pile upon themselves. "Fuck, man, I'm—" He swallows and the hand without the spatula fumbles to put down the beer and grab at the back of Karl's neck. "Trying to cook."

"I'm not stopping you," Karl murmurs into his skin, then his hand slides around to tuck just under Chris' t-shirt as he takes a leisurely bite of Chris' neck—and there goes the spatula, too.

Into the beer, of course. Karl chuckles and quicker than Chris can blink has the bottle upright again. Barely a drop is spilled, and Chris turns his head to plant a kiss on Karl, wherever he can reach. Ends up being the corner of his grinning mouth. "Fuck you and your fast reflexes," he mumbles, only slightly sullenly, before going in for a real kiss.

Karl allows it for about three-point-five seconds, then nudges Chris' attention back to the stove. "Don't burn my dinner, please."

Chris laughs. "Yeah, yeah." He steals one more kiss, dirty and possibly involving a scrape of teeth just to show him he's not licked. "But only because it's my dinner, too."

\---

They don't eat at the table, of course (in this bachelor-pad the table is a desk, and possibly, Karl has an inkling, a substitute bed-like surface) they get settled on the couch (another bed-like surface, and when did Karl get this horny? Good lord he's not nineteen anymore and it's not been _that_ long since he saw Chris) and Chris picks up the remote.

The second the infamous opening begins, the block of text scrolling up the starry screen, Karl laughs outright. "You're kidding me."

"Nope."

Karl looks at him questioningly, but the kid's invested in his tacos and beer. Then the first scene starts up and it's been a while—his kids have been more into Indiana Jones recently—so he settles back and lets it lie.

\---

After the movie, Karl leans a hip on the counter and opens another beer as Chris futzes with a vague sort of cleanup. They talk about everything and nothing, casual and ridiculous and Karl laughs a lot and is happy. It's a different happy than he is back at home, but it's still sweet. Still satisfying.

Or will be satisfying… in a minute…

When the dishes are finally done and the kitchen is back to its normal, truly not-pristine condition, Karl puts down his beer and reaches out to pull Chris to him.

Chris smirks but comes willingly, and their bodies line up easily, comfortably. "Want something?"

Karl kisses him lightly. "Maybe."

"I might have something for you." Chris' hips shift against his, and the heat begins to rise.

"Yeah?" He kisses him again, not so lightly this time. Chris' hips shift again, although this time it's less of a shift and more of a thrust, and Karl smiles into the kiss.

Chris pulls back, steps away even, and grins. "Yup."

And he opens the fridge and unearths two perfect, tiny German chocolate cakes.

Karl looks from them to him, _totally_ suspicious now but also… well…

Chris sees it, sees the flush and the look on Karl's face, and grins. "I know, right?" He tilts his head in a 'come here' gesture that shouldn't be sexy, shouldn't at all, but somehow… Karl blames the cake. Especially after he's had his and it's bloody amazing.

He wipes his mouth and looks from Chris to the other one. "Well, go on. It's not poison."

Chris picks up the cake and shakes his head, stepping towards Karl. "Nuh-uh."

His tongue reaches out to lick at the left half of his top lip, and Karl can't take his eyes away, feeling the warmth of him, so close he can smell the beer on his breath… But he's not willing to give in just quite yet. "It is poison, then?"

"Fucking hope not." Chris swipes a finger through the frosting and reaches up to Karl's mouth, slicking it along his bottom lip. Karl lets him, then licks the frosting up unhurriedly and watches Chris's eyes track the movement, but when Chris goes for a second attempt, Karl sucks the errant finger into his mouth.

And Chris in turn sucks in a breath. Then his smile becomes something almost chiding. "Stop that." He pulls his finger out with a little pop, then his lips find Karl's— _finally_ —and he puts one hand on his chest in a clear get-the-hell-to-the-bed move. Karl decides to be ornery, though, and only backs up a smidge. "What's the hurry?"

Chris scoops up another finger full of cake. "I promised to get you into bed," he says conversationally as he contemplates the chocolate lump.

Then he locks eyes with Karl and wraps his lips around it in an _obscene_ fashion. Karl hears the groan that escapes him, and flushes, but Chris just grins. He's an idiot, but he's amazing, and there's chocolate on one of his teeth but that's all the more incentive for Karl to kiss him.

Which he does.

Chris makes a noise in his throat as Karl proceeds to clear all of the chocolate out of his mouth, one leisurely tongue swipe at a time. He finally breaks away, breathing rather heavily, and pushes at Karl's chest again. "I said stop that. And get the hell to the bedroom."

"Fine, fine." Karl obliges, but puts a hand on Chris' hip to pull him along, pull him close, kiss him as well as he can as they navigate the apartment. Chris is careful not to squash the little cake between then, Karl notices through the haze of Pine's wicked oral maneuvers, and when they reach the bed and Chris starts undressing Karl without a thought for himself, Karl pulls his mouth away to ask.

"Okay, but— seriously—" He stops with a grunt when Chris puts a bit of cake on the newly exposed skin of his chest. "What exactly are we celebrating?"

"Who says we're celebrating?" Chris' doesn't look at him, instead darting a tongue out to lick up the cake then make a trail to the nearest nipple. Karl feels his hips twitch feebly. Chris adds some cake to the nipple and gets his oral fixation on.

"Pine..." He moves his hand to Chris's neck firmly. Chris finally meets his eyes. Karl quirks the eyebrow.

Chris shrugs, getting back to his work, wiping chocolate and kisses all up and down Karl's abdomen. "Fine," he says in between. "How about… Saints Cyril and Methodius."

"Saints who?" Karl's hands are everywhere they can reach, cupping his neck and smoothing over his shoulder. Chris leans up and holds the last bit of cake at his lips. Karl takes it, trying not to be greedy but he has to pull Chris in for a kiss after that, just has to. He reaches all the places he can with his tongue, slicking over teeth and tongue and lips, always those lips…

Chris breaks away with a curse. "Distractor!" He clears his throat. "Cyril and Methodius," he starts again as he undoes Karl's jeans with a snap. He tongues just under the edge, then down the trail as it's exposed by pushed-back fabric, and the twitch in Karl's hips is also a twitch in Karl's cock as it perks up.

Karl grits his jaw, trying not to be grabby as Chris moves between Karl's legs and almost out of his reach. Oh yeah, fully perked and ready to go. "And they were…"

"Greek, I think," Chris answers absently, fully intent on the newly-freed piece of man in front of him. He grins and reaches out to lift it up so he can kiss the tip.

Karl's heart pings a little. Then Chris lingers, letting his lips slide down one side, and more than Karl's heart is pinging. Karl tries to breathe, tries to remember what they're talking about. "And they're saints because…"

Chris makes a noise and detaches briefly. "They died horribly in the name of Christ?" he says wryly, his chin on Karl's tummy.

"I thought that was the definition of martyr."

"Often coincides. Now will you stop asking me questions so I can blow you properly?"

Karl grins and his heart does a spin. "By all means."

And he does, and God but the kid is good at this, with those lips and those long fingers and that _enthusiasm_. Karl lets his head fall back onto the pillow and just _feels_.

And possibly the jet lag is making his brain spin as well but Chris is being so—Well, if Karl didn't know better, he'd say Chris is being loving. Not that Chris doesn't love everybody, in their own way, and love Karl in turn, but this is different. Feels different, at least, and Karl allows himself to drown in it.

He's floating on a happy pre-orgasm precipice when Chris slows. He struggles to focus on Chris' face but gives up when he feels a slick finger at his entrance. "Yes, fuck yes," he breathes out, and a groan comes from the mouth that has once again surrounded his cock with wet heat – and he's lost, he's coming in about five seconds, shuddering and cursing and unsure what day it is or, hell, what his own name is.

He learns the latter a moment or two later, when Chris murmurs it against his hip. "Karl…" Karl manages a grunt in response, and feels the puff of air on his skin as Chris snorts. "Man, you are wiped, aren't you?"

Karl swallows and nods, reaching for him. "I'm sorry," he starts, but Chris cuts him off by easing his pants back up to cover his licked-clean cock and his trousers the rest of the way down his legs.

"Shut the hell up, old man," he adds quietly as he tosses the trousers aside, and Karl is more than happy to oblige. He reaches out again, but Chris is taking his own jeans off. Karl'd help, he really would, but he feels positively boneless. Almost gelatinous. He wonders if he'd float or sink right now, and very nearly giggles.

"Up," Chris instructs, tugging at the covers.

Karl realizes Chris has turned off all but the bedside lamp, and tries to protest. "No, really, I'm sorry, let me—" A gargantuan yawn interrupts his well-meant babble, and Chris chuckles. He gets in and settles up against the pillows, bringing the covers up over them both, then gathers Karl to him. Tucked against him and under his chin, Karl's brain is keen to reciprocate, kiss him, anything, but… clearly, his body and the universe have other plans for him at the moment. Or one plan, really: falling asleep on Chris Pine's shoulder.

"Get some rest, Karl." Chris leans down and presses a kiss against the top of his head. "It's alright, I've got a script to read anyways."

Karl knows when he's done for, and this is then. "Thank you," he mumbles into Chris's chest with his last vestiges of wakefulness.

The arm around his shoulder tightens for a moment. "Anytime, my young friend. Anytime."

\---

A couple days later, once his brain is mostly sorted, Karl's waiting for a shot to be re-set and remembers. Something about mysterious celebrations and… saints. The next time he can get to his phone, he calls a reliable source.

"Hey, Quinto, ever hear of saints called…Cyril and Melodius?"

Zach chuckles at him. "Melodius? I think you mean Methodius."

Karl tries not to blush, even though he knows Zach can't very well see him. "Sure, him, yeah."

"Not specifically, no. But I do know that their day—according to the Catholic calendar, you understand—is February fourteenth." Karl blinks. "Otherwise known as Valentine's Day?" Zach keeps talking but he doesn't really hear it. "I dated this guy once that refused to celebrate it, and it was the most annoying thing—"

He finally gets his mouth open. "Hey, thanks, I'll—I gotta go, I'll talk to you later."

He's got Chris' name called up on his phone before he remembers: the kid has gone on a shoot somewhere up north. Not like, Canada north, just northern California north. So he still has a chance. If he's lucky. And calls in a favour. He hesitates for two very long seconds, then presses redial.

"Yeah, Zach, sorry about that. Listen… about those saints…."

\---

The ringing of the motel phone pulls Chris up from where he totally hasn't just fallen asleep face-first on a script to the sound of the rain pounding outside. He looks blearily at the clock, then at his cell to see if he's missed any calls. He hasn't, but there's a text from Zach.

 _HAY GURL HAY (7:56 PM):  
Answer the phone._

Well, that's just creepy.

The phone stops ringing. Chris looks from it to his cell then back. It rings again. He eyes it, then picks it up. "Yes?"

"Mr Steinbeck?"

Chris rubs at his eyes. "Yeah, sure."

"There's a visitor for you at the front desk."

He looks at his cell again, but it has not changed. Well, Zach's pulled weirder stunts. He pulls on some pants and ventures forth.

But standing at the front desk, soaked to the bone and carrying a sagging bouquet and what looks suspiciously like a wet bag of In N Out, is not Zach.

Chris bursts out laughing.

"Oh, thanks," Karl grumbles, his eyes flicking to the desk plebe then back to Chris before dropping to the bundles in his hands.

Chris' heart, which had started doing fucking gymnastics as soon as he walked in the room, settles somewhere in the vicinity of his throat at the look on Karl's face. He immediately crosses to him. "Well, come on, bro, you look like a drowned rat." He reaches out, wanting like hell to touch the guy but taking the flowers instead. "What's with these?"

"They're—" Karl is _blushing_ , and Chris wants his fucking camera. "It's nothing, they're just—"

"They from a fan?" he cuts in, trying to help him out.

Karl looks so relieved Chris has to hold back another laugh. "Yeah, they're—Yeah, very sweet older lady…"

The guy at the desk pipes up. "May I get you a vase, sir?"

Chris grins and lays the bedraggled flowers across his arm like a beauty queen. "Yes, absolutely."

Really, he kind of wants to get them bronzed.

\---

Chris opens his mouth when the elevator doors close them in but Karl shakes his head and glances at where the camera's probably embedded. And unfortunately he has a point.

"Damn," Chris says wistfully. "Always wanted my life to be an Aerosmith song."

Karl snorts. "Aren't you a little young for Aerosmith?"

Chris puts a hand to his heart. " _No one_ is too young for Aerosmith, man. They are rock _gods_."

Karl half smiles. "Plus, they were on the Simpsons."

Chris nods. "Yup, that they were."

There's a pause. Karl clears his throat. "Why are you in a motel, anyways? What is this project that can't afford trailers and is filming in a postage-stamp-sized town named Maxwell?"

"It's a favor really." He yammers about it until the elevator gets to its destination, then reaches over with his free hand and pushes Karl forward and out the door. If his hand lingers too long, well, that's not something anybody's going to notice.

\---

"Man, do you suck at improv," is the first thing he says once they're in the room and the door's shut behind them. He carefully puts the vase of sad-looking flowers on the dresser. Then he takes the bag out of Karl's hand and looks inside. His favorite, of course, and he grins so hard his face hurts. "How did you know?"

Karl's still blushing. "Quinto. Quinto's the—" He rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah."

Then before Chris can blink, the bag is on the table too and he's getting the snot kissed out of him.

And this is A-okay with him.

He wraps his arms around Karl and kisses him back fiercely, is tempted for a second to jump up and wrap his fucking legs around Karl even though he's not exactly a small delicate flower— And somehow Karl reads his mind because in about two seconds he's got Chris backed against the inoffensive and probably not stable enough for this but what the hell hotel room table and he feels Karl's huge amazing sexy hands palming the globes of his ass.

Karl breaks the kiss long enough to say "up" and follow through with a lift that makes Chris laugh delightedly, even as his ass hits the surface rather abruptly, because Karl's got him, Karl's surrounding him again, hands warm and everywhere.

The laugh gets sucked away when Karl's mouth attaches to his neck. "I hope you have a good makeup crew on this shoot," he murmurs, and Chris lets out a choked "I don't fucking care" as he scrambles to get under Karl's utterly useless jacket and shirt.

Said clothes fwump wetly to the ground and Chris licks every piece of damp skin he can reach, hairs scratching his tongue and a nipple catching deliberately on his teeth. Karl's hands pause where they're trying to get Chris' jeans unfastened, and his groan rumbles through both of them.

He pulls Chris up for a kiss. "You are such a pain, you know that?"

"Yeah," Chris mumbles into his lips, "I know. But you…" He swallows against the words that come up, shuffles through to the next ones. "You brought me flowers anyways." His hands have gone where his mouth was then moved south, to where they're now pressing against Karl's cock through his jeans and tugging at the fastenings. "Flowers, and french fries with tartar sauce."

"Well…" Karl grunts into his mouth when Chris' fingers negotiate his cockhead and give his length a solid stroke. "I felt bad," he says softly, and Chris pauses, looking up to find Karl's eyes wide and warm.

And he can't quite take it, so he grins and teases him, kissing him quickly before giving another stroke. "How long did it take before you figured it out?" And another.

Karl grimaces, gasps, breathes in through his nose and kisses at Chris' lips and tongue. "A couple days." His hands move up under Chris' shirt and tug upwards.

Chris allows it over his head but captures Karl's lips again straight away. "A couple days."

"Yeah." His voice is calm but rough, and he's pulling Chris' jeans and boxers down with purpose. "A couple days and a phone call to Quinto. Now up."

Chris obeys, torn between laughing and continuing with the inquiry. He loses the wherewithal to decide somewhere around getting Karl's own jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs, because Karl has pulled him forward until their cocks and chests are in contact and though it's not perfect it's _perfect_ and Chris kind of wants to stay there for a while.

"Tell me you have stuff," Karl mutters, breath warm on Chris' cheek, and Chris chuckles.

"Um, doi." He points with his chin towards the dresser. "With the socks." Karl cocks an eyebrow at him. "Hey, I never claimed to be unpredictable!"

Karl laughs and nips at his bottom lip, then shucks the rest of his clothes off. Chris settles back on his hands and watches that perfect backside walk to the dresser. It's a beautiful sight, and he knows he's licking his lips way too lasciviously but—but then Karl bends over and he's a fucking _goner_. "Shit, would you hurry up?"

Karl pauses, still bent, then throws a grin over his shoulder and does a little butt wiggle dance. Chris laughs outright, his head tilting back. "Thank you," he says as Karl makes his way back. "God, you're so white."

Chris reaches out and wraps his arms and legs around him again, kissing him hard enough to be able to steal the lube from his distracted fingers. "You just drove eight hours, partially through rain, to some scruffy motel in the middle of nowhere," he says between kisses, slicking up his right hand by touch. "Only because your frat boy of a boyfriend," –he hears Karl's sharp intake of breath but doesn't stop, refuses to stop or else he'll take it back and they'll have to _talk_ and nobody wants that— "several days late, while you were jet-lagged and, well, a Kiwi," –he reaches up for a kiss, then settles back on his left hand, opening himself up because it's _Karl_ and— "was a brat about a Hallmark holiday." He meets Karl's eyes and makes his intentions clear. "So let him make it up to you."

Karl's hands are behind Chris' knees, now, holding him and he's grateful because it's been a while since he's done this and as soon as he gets one finger in himself, the sudden rush of feeling and the look on Karl's face—intense, loving, hot as shit—are enough to force the breath right out of him.

Karl leans in and kisses him fiercely, and Chris knows he's hit the jackpot when it's shaped like a muttered curse. That's enough to motivate him to add another finger, and the burn of pleasure cajoles a curse out of his own mouth and into Karl's. Karl's grip on his thighs tightens and Chris knows that he's coiled tight, that he's holding back.

So he hurries it a long. He takes in a breath and licks his lips and adds another finger. He hears a guttural groan escape him as his body works to accommodate them; even though it's not enough to hit the spot it's still pretty fucking amazing, and he must look like a sexed up idiot but—for Karl, he's okay with it.

He meets Karl's eyes as he lazily pulls out then plunges back in.

" _God_ , Chris—" And Karl's hand is tugging his out, leaving him open and exposed but instantly surrounding him with his own warmth, tightening Chris' legs around him and wrapping his arms around Chris, clutching Chris' shoulders as if he's going to fly away.

Chris buries his face in Karl's neck and holds on for the ride.

Karl pushes in slowly and they both groan. "Jesus, that's so—I don't even… I mean, I can't…"

Chris sucks lightly on the bit of Karl in front of him. "Me neither."

Karl lets out a shaky laugh. "Well, thank Christ." And then he moves. And they ease into a slow, languid rhythm, with Karl never fully leaving or penetrating him, and Chris knows it's a bit girly but, he as he feels the calm strength around him and the trails of wet kisses he's leaving on Karl's skin, he is so okay with it.

Then Karl thrusts just a little more deeply and Chris' cock makes it clear that it has other ideas. "Oh fuck, yes, that's—" He finds himself tipping back, tipping up and leaning on his hands so he can get just the right—

Stars explode behind his eyes and he shouts. Shouts a lot, probably, in the next few minutes, but he's beyond giving a fuck. Karl is all right with these developments, apparently, because his hands drop to grip Chris' hips as he starts to drive in deep.

And before long, filthy words start leaving his lips. "God damn it, so fucking good—hot—Yeah—" And his grip is quite tight now and his eyes are shut tight and his lips are snarled in pleasure and Chris will _never_ get _over_ this—this breaking of Karl Urban, this melting of a perfect man into a perfect mess. It's a sight to behold, and Chris wants to see it again and again and again.

Doesn't hurt that a minute later, Karl's hand works Chris' cock into a massive orgasm, enough that he swears he loses vision for a moment, there's a white screen of pleasure over everything. All he has is Karl, hot and firm and shuddering inside him with a surprisingly quiet "Fuck, Chris—" and a moan.

Chris lays there for a moment, gathering what's left of his wits, then sits up slowly—careful not to dislodge them yet—and loops his arms back around Karl. He kisses at his mouth. "Fucking awesome, Urban."

Karl chuckles, and it's a whoosh of air against Chris's lips. "Does that means we're square?"

Chris nods, smiling. "Yeah. It also means we should crack open those French fries."

Karl rolls his eyes. Then he shifts his head to look at Chris. Raises an eyebrow. And before Chris can protest, Karl's fucking _lifting_ him off the table and moving towards the bed, where he summarily deposits him. Chris immediately grabs at him, tries to win back the advantage, and he probably could but Karl is moving away, muttering something about adolescents and bottomless stomachs.

Chris sprawls back and enjoys the show. When Karl comes back, it's with tissue and a crinkled In N Out bag, and Chris' grin threatens to take over his face. "How romantic."

Karl chuckles and sits down beside him. "I _do_ try." Chris laughs, then dives into the fries face first. Karl puts a hand over his eyes. "But when you are sick from eating dodgy tartar sauce, do not wake me up."

"Pfft, please." Chris leans over and pecks Karl on the cheek. "You'd hold my hair back any time of night."

Karl looks at him. Then he smiles, and there's dimples and everything, and Chris' head feels light. "Yeah, I reckon I would." He plants a sweet kiss on Chris' mouth. "Now shut up and eat."

 _  
**FIN**   
_


End file.
